


The Last Victim

by WhumpTown



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Gen, It's an AU, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown
Summary: Martin Whitly is a serial killer who takes his curiosity out on his victims... and his young son. Malcolm grows up without his dad but his mark still very ingrained in his body
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	The Last Victim

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be for the prodigal son big bang but college really sucked being online

_**Part One: 1998—— Before the Arrest** _

Martin Whitley glides down the steps of the basement, his young son in his arms. “You should have seen him, my boy!” Martin’s voice echoes off the walls. His deep, belly laughter follows it. Malcolm’s ear is pressed to his father’s chest, allowing him to hear the vibration of his vocal cords. The deep timber from its source. “Made a mockery of himself in front of the chief of staff,” another deep rumbling chuckle. 

A dark contrast to the teal room.

Only Martin and Malcolm know about the teal room. It’s a faux kind of proximity, as is their nightly routine. The soft knock at his door before his father sticks his head in, softly inquiring if Malcolm’s asleep. He’s never asleep. Martin coming into his room and luring him in with a book or a story from work, tonight it was about his coworker Matthew — “a beady-eyed plastic surgeon”. Then Martin scooping Malcolm up in his arms, brushing back his bangs with the soft promise of “It’s going to be okay, my boy”. 

Martin Whitley lays his son down on the hard slab of an old hospital gurney. It’s rusty, beaten up and Malcolm knows every divot and crack. His fingers have brushed across its surface every night for as long as he can remember. Counting the small embellishments, each flaw in the metal, is his only source of entertainment in the teal room. The only reprieve from the pain that he’s found.

“Open,” Martin’s fingers dig into Malcolm’s jaw. Dejectedly Malcolm complies. Martin puts a mouthguard in between his teeth. It’s too big but Malcolm no longer gags on the rubber pushing too far back in his throat. Martin’s grip is so tight that after he’s turned around, having released Malcolm, he can still feel where Martin’s fingers pressed into his flesh. Malcolm blinks back tears of discomfort and his silence is a moment of pride for Martin. 

His proud smile goes beyond science and paternity. It’s sick and twisted, the kind of smile Malcolm gets when he’s gone through Martin’s torture without a struggle. Compliant and helpless. Malcolm’s getting worse, physically, and his pain tolerance getting better. Jessica is starting to notice how peculiar Malcolm is acting. While his baby sister babbles happily, tottering around as toddlers do Malcolm doesn’t speak. He’s weaker, his legs unable to hold his weight as they should be able to. Martin struggles to explain why Jessica should let him handle all aspects of Malcolm’s care. Having Ainsely, though, has given Jessica a proper distraction. She struggles to take care of a toddler and Malcolm.

“Shh, my boy,” Martin brushes his son’s fringe from his forehead. Malcolm’s already clammy, his body bracing for the inevitable pain of the teal room in the basement. He’s making nonsense noises, his fear bubbling up when he can’t clench his teeth tight enough to dampen the sound. Martin suspects the noises are muffled cries from chronic pain and he’s not wrong. He’ll have to note that in his journal, chronic pain is a new symptom. The thought alone makes Martin smile down at his son, he is proud to be a father and he’s even prouder that Malcolm is so good at helping Martin explore his scientific curiosities.

There is nothing, naturally-occurring to blame for Malcolm’s current state. He was born a perfectly healthy six-pound baby at full term. Even had a full head of hair and stunning blue eyes. Every little scratch on his body, the pinprick scars on the tips of his fingers and scar tissue around the veins in his arms, is from Martin. Secluded to his mind, his tongue nearly having forgotten how to speak, Malcolm can’t see the abuse for what it is anymore. It’s simply what he’s known for as long as he can remember.

Martin double-checks the restraints securing Malcolm to the gurney. He opens his bottom drawer smiling happily at the electroconvulsive device. He applies just enough lubricant to the ends needed for the machine to work. Martin’s already turning over a script in his head for tomorrow morning, planning on what to say to about the two perfectly round burns on his son’s head.  
Malcolm clenches his teeth when Martin turns around with the device in his hand. He jerks his left leg hard, the restraint locking him in his prone position. He doesn’t recognize this device and the deviation from their normal night routine frightens Malcolm more than his father’s smile. The cold metal ends touch his temples and Malcolm wonders what this will feel like.

Will it be white? The kind of pain that makes his skin cold with sweat. His arms covered in bruises as he fights to get away, only jerking helplessly as the restraints bite into his flesh. Halting his movements. Will it be red? The kind of pain that is hot. It makes his brain fever laden and skin the color of his blood as his veins pop on his forehead. His jaw sore the next morning with how hard he bites the guard.

The shock comes sharp, white lightning dancing across the back of his eyelids. His muscles pull taunt, spasming as his body screams red hot pain. Malcolm has no sense over his body, eyes blinking and head empty of thought. He’s slack. Submissive. 

“Dammit——” Martin pats his cheek, attempting and failing to rouse Malcolm as his eyes roll into the back of his head. His jaw hands open, drool pooling on his Batman pajamas, his body twitching as his muscles spasm beyond his control. His curse stems not from fear of the harm that might have befallen his son because of his actions because this might mean his night has come to a premature end.

Martin makes note of the voltage he used and observes all the side effects he can see. For a moment, he considers just leaving Malcolm down here. Discarded. He’s got a girl trapped in a chest just a room over—— there are other things he could be doing. Not to mention, the girl is going to be phenomenally more fun to play with.

Blowing out a breath of annoyance, Martin decides to leave him for the time being. 

As stated, there are more entertaining things to be done.

__________

Malcolm wakes up on his back. Shivering as his senses come back to him, his immediate thoughts are confused. He doesn’t know where he is— who he is. His muscles are still flexing painfully, his arms and legs secured tightly to the sides of the bed. Each time he attempts to move the restraints bite into his flesh. Bruising the tender skin of his wrist and ankles. Worse is the guard in his mouth, he gags on it, his jaw sore as he chokes around it. 

Despite his confusion, the adamant fear in the pit of his stomach, he knows where he is… somehow familiar. His confusion starves him of his ability to comfort himself as he normally would. 

“Alright,” a man at the door claps his hands together, startling Malcolm. Martin notices his son’s disorientation immediately and grins with interest. Of course, he’d thoroughly read into the possible side effects of eclectic convulsion but he didn’t think memory issues would be a symptom presenting so soon. “Do you know who I am?”

Malcolm pulls his body as far from Martin as he can, even as it pulls painfully at his body. The answer is no but there’s something deep in the pit of his stomach crawling like molten lava at the sight of the man. He’s terrified, unable to place where he is or why or even who the man towering over him is. 

“Hmm,” Martin turns from his son. Intent on hunting down his sticky note from earlier, to finish his notes with his new additional symptom before heading off to bed. It takes a quick second to jot down the additional symptom but the more labor—intensive problem is getting Malcolm back to bed confused and agitated. “Are you going to behave or will I have to sedate you?”

He already knows the answer before he asks it but what he really needs is a moment to mull over what drugs he can sedate him with. In the end, he’s left with only one option: chloroform. Despite his son thrashing atop the gurney, looking at him with blown pupils and clear distress Martin takes his time measuring out the proper dose. He doesn’t want to hurt the boy. 

“Now,” Martin hovers the rag over Malcolm’s face. His other hand pushing back the boy’s sweaty fringe. “Deep breathes. In with me,” Martin presses the rag down, careful not to obstruct his airway. He takes in a dramatic breath, shoulders rising and then blowing out the breath in a steady stream. “Out, slow.” He keeps going at his expressed respiration rate until Malcolm’s eyes begin to droop. 

Tossing the rag aside, he makes quick work of the restraints around his son’s now limp limbs. He scoops the thin boy up, his lightweight making for easy manipulation and movement as Martin heads out of the basement, turning lights off as he goes. 

“Oh——”

Martin rounds the top of the stairs and jumps as he finds Jessica waiting. His wife’s hair is pinned up for sleep, her eyes still squinting where she must have woken up and gone in search for him. That’s becoming a problem as of late, her curiosity. “Jessie,” he exhales, smiling at the sight of her. “You scared me!”

She’s placed a hand over her own heart, initially from the momentary shock of nearly running into one another, and now to behaviourally express the soft joy she feels at the sight of him carrying their son. “Is he okay?” She asks stepping closer, leaning in to see for herself before she’s given him the chance to explain.

Martin has already planned for this run in long before it comes and has his excuse on the tip of his tongue. “I got up to get some water,” he explains, face softening as they both gaze down at the sleeping boy in his arms. “He was having some trouble, I took him down with me.” Martin offers Jessica a small frown when she makes a distressed noise, upset that she missed Malcolm’s distress, and was unable to comfort him. 

Martin starts back down the hall, smiling as Jessica some sweeping up alongside him. Lanky and skinny as Malcolm is, Martin is starting to feel the strain of his weight. “He’s fine now though, love.” They arrive at Malcolm’s bedroom, the two of them falling silent as Martin carefully lays his boy down atop the bed. He tucks each limb under the comforter and sweeps his cardigan covered thumb across Malcolm’s lower lip to get rid of the drool pooled there. 

He steps back, a foot from Malcolm’s bed. Jessica pressed into his side, leaning against him. They watch their son sleep. 

“Do you ever think he’ll be…” 

Martin guides her, their fingers interlaced, down the hall. He knows exactly what she doesn’t say. Normal has been at the tips of their tongues regarding Malcolm for years. From what Martin has gathered and as far as modern medicine has come, he honestly doesn’t think so. Malcolm will never be normal by societal regard but what he’s done in the name of science is immeasurable. 

Martin believes Malcolm will come to understand that with age.

__________

As the light cracks between the small space where his left blind meets his right blind, Malcolm wakes to an ache in his legs. He lacks the coordination to move the aches away and the pain intensifies. His chest is tight, his breaths wheezing. He tries to writhe too much, biting down on his lip to prevent any sounds. A muscle in his thigh, a voice in the back of his head that sounds too much like his father helpfully supplying ‘rectus femoris muscle’, clenches tightly. If he were able, he’d just tell his mother the back of his thigh hurts. 

She’d be able to see what he’s talking about. His fingers ghost over the back of the muscle, its outline raised. It makes his whole leg quiver and his face hot with pain.

“Malcolm,” his mother knocks softly at his door, her head peeking in. She knows that he can’t answer her call but there’s still a small part of her that prays one day he might. Today, just like the day before, her call goes unanswered. Sometimes, though, she’ll peek her head in and find him sleepily smiling back at her. Up, just not ready for the day.

Today is not going to be one of those days.

He doesn’t hide the pain from her. She can help. She will help.

She settles onto the edge of the bed, her fingers working apart the pain in his thigh. He can see the tears in her eyes and he hates that she cries because of him. He hasn’t long to loathe his existence before he’s pulled into her arms. Her soft fingers stroking his hair back from his face. He uses what control he has over his body to relax and lean his head into her. Closing his eyes.

“Are you hungry, my love?” Jessica blames herself. She hadn’t noticed Malcolm’s decline. She hadn’t paid him proper attention after Ainsley’s birth. The way his speech slurred and how weak his motor functions were becoming. Maybe if she’d seen sooner——

“Oatmeal?” She’s not worried that Malcolm won’t supply her a verbal answer. Malcolm smiles despite it all, pushing his face against her stomach. It’s all the answer she needs. She can’t help but smile too,” oatmeal then.” She’s his favorite person. He loves her and that makes her feel guilty too.

She picks him up, placing him in the wheelchair Martin brought home last month. Just two months ago, Malcolm was her shadow. He never spoke but he wanted to be everywhere she was. He liked cooking and she could stir a giggle out of him with some music and silly dancing in the kitchen. “Should we cut up some strawberries for our oatmeal?”

Malcolm tries his best to force his hand to sign his mother the word ‘yes’. She smiles and rustles his hair for the effort. Martin always doubts their son, he pays more attention to Ainsley and cheers on her little steps. Yet, Malcolm reflects intelligence. He soaks in every sign that his mother teaches him and watches intently every move she makes. His body is a dull knife but his mind is as sharp as a dagger.

“Mm!” Ainsely shouts when they come down to the kitchen, her cereal out of its bowl as she uses her fist to spoon it into her mouth. “Mm! Mm. Mm. Mm.”

Malcolm grins widely at his little sister, fingerspelling her name back at her. She can say ‘momma’ and ‘daddy’ now and can even throw in a few more household items. She refuses to say Malcolm but he doesn’t mind. He’s never had a nickname before no matter unfulfilling ‘Mm’ is.

Jessica pushes him up beside Ainsley, watching the two of them interact. They’re just children, blind to youth and disability. Ainsley clumsily feeds her brother cheerios and Malcolm is much more precise with a strawberry for her in return. They giggle over something whispered and Jessica turns to a book, letting their youth soak into the room the way the sun does.

Malcolm grins widely at his little sister, fingerspelling her name back at her. She can say ‘momma’ and ‘daddy’ now and can even throw in a few more household items. She refuses to say Malcolm but he doesn’t mind. He’s never had a nickname before no matter unfulfilling ‘Mm’ is.

Jessica pushes him up beside Ainsley, watching the two of them interact. They’re just children, blind to youth and disability. Ainsley clumsily feeds her brother cheerios and Malcolm is much more precise with a strawberry for her in return. They giggle over something whispered and Jessica turns to a book, letting their youth soak into the room the way the sun does.

She spends the day with them, wishing Martin were home to see just how energetic and playful Malcolm can be. After all the problems Malcolm’s faced, Martin has been supportive but he hasn't been active. He has a tendency to undermine Malcolm. It breaks her heart that they can’t have a better relationship. 

“Family!” Everyone jumps at the sudden intrusion and Jessica edges out of the living room, surprised to find Martin kicking his shoes off by the door. “I’m on call,” he says in between the kisses he greets her with. “So, I thought why not come home and visit with my family?” He goes to the living room, pressing a kiss to Ainsley’s cheek and rustling Malcolm’s hair. “Wanna go to the park?”

Malcolm hates the park.

He watches his father push Ainsley higher and higher in the swing. Her happy squeals of delight fill the chilly air. He shivers not from the cold so much as the anger and rejection burning in his mind. His mother pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders dropping a kiss to his head. He tries to turn his attention back to his book but he’s read the same two pages three times now, his hand refusing to move.

“I’ll take you to get ice cream,” Jessica promises, not missing how her son looks up again to his father and sister playing happily.

Malcolm doesn’t care. He doesn’t want ice cream.

The day passes much faster with Martin home. Malcolm waits on edge and Jessica worries when he doesn’t eat his dinner. Martin brushes it off as always. She’s beyond frustrated with her husband. They fight in the kitchen over his brush off. Malcolm sits in the living room, eyes unfocused as he glares a patch on the carpet. He’s dissociating, preparing for what he knows this means for later. Malcolm understands every word and his hands tremble with the fear that his father’s frustration will be taken out on him.

She comes into the living room on a warpath but the moment she sees Malcolm, she softens. It all melts away when she sees the apprehension in his sad blue eyes. “Come on, baby,” she runs a hand through his hair, pressing a kiss to his head. “You have to eat,” she pleads, stroking his cheek with her thumb. She sighs and looks up as Martin carries Ainsley through the living room. She glares at him until he recedes up the stairs. She shakes her head but schools her features as she looks back to Malcolm. He doesn’t want to eat and she doesn’t feel like forcing him to.“Let’s get you to bed.”

She rubs his back until he falls asleep. He tries to fight the sleep weighing him down, her nails on his back making it that much harder. He’s terrified of falling asleep. He doesn’t want the night to draw any closer yet he pushes his face closer to his mother, taking in the soft scents of lavender and nameless flowers. His mother is warm, tender and he’s exhausted. It doesn’t take long, she rocks him, humming softly as she runs her hands through his hair. He drifts off.  
He wakes up in his father’s arms. “— hemorrhaging everywhere,” his father tells him but Malcolm’s fighting exhaustion, his head falling limply back against Martin’s shoulder. He loses the meaning of whatever Martin’s saying.

He wakes again as he’s being laid on the gurney, his father still talking. “My attention will be elsewhere tonight, my dear boy.” Martin unbuttons his pajama shirt and rolls up his sleeve. Malcolm watches with no general interest in helping. “You will not be forgotten though.”

Malcolm blinks away the fog in his brain, wincing as Martin fights a needle into his arm. He’s instantly chilled as the liquid flows into his arm. His father always opens the flow too much causing the unmistakable sting and tingle as the fluids rush into his veins. Malcolm looks up from his arm, frowning as Martin packs up his tools, placing them in a bag. 

Martin winks at him, “I’ll be back soon, my boy.”

Malcolm’s… jealous. His father has paid him no attention and as the burning pain of the liquid spreads through his body, Martin isn’t even there to see it. He didn’t even put on the restraints. Malcolm flexes his hand, finding the muscles trembling but working. He struggles to sit up, his abdomen not strong enough to do the work alone. For a moment he fears he won’t be able to do it at all, face going hot, he forces himself into position.

He slides off the side, his arm catching with the line still in place. His legs don’t accept his weight well, wobbling dangerously beneath him but he leans heavily on the gurney and finds he can stand. He grabs the IV port, using the unsteady stand to take his first solo steps in a month. The movement is nearly unfamiliar and painful and, yet, freeing.

He wishes his mother could see him.

Malcolm falls hard. Somewhere close someone screams in agony. Malcolm can just hardly hear it and he knows, from experience, that no one upstairs has heard the interruption. It’s harder to get back up this time, his knees hurt so much. Now he’s curious. Who is his father with?

He finds his answer in the study. There’s a woman, strapped to the table and his father is standing over her. He’s saying awful, cruel things to her. Things that he’s never said to Malcolm, not even when he’s trying to be mean. It scares him. Legs bowed and knees weak, he tries to get away but Malcolm falls over himself. His body hits the floor in a clatter and Martin jerks his attention to the sound.

Malcolm, frozen in horror, can’t break his eyes away from his father’s. For the first time in his life, Malcolm sees rage in his father’s eyes. Pure, unadulterated rage. His heart in his chest and he can’t crawl away fast enough. His legs drag behind him, the IV ripping from his skin. Leaving a dragged path of blood.

Martin grabs him by the shirt, lifting him up so they’re face to face. “What did you see,” Martin demands, shaking him when Malcolm remains limp. “What did you see!”

Malcolm is trembling in fear. He’s never been this afraid of his father. 

“Dammit!” Martin lets him go, allowing Malcolm to fall to the floor boneless. Martin runs his hands through his hair for a moment, frantically trying to piece together what to do. “Dammit!” Martin picks Malcolm up, roughly— disregarding his bleeding arm. 

Malcolm’s paralyzed with fear, unable to tell Martin about the blood getting all over his clothes. He shakes as his father jogs up the stairs and leaves him on his bed.

Dumped.

Malcolm trembles on the bed, terrified. His arms hurt and his legs throbbing with pain. He cries through the night. He knows better than to be too loud, he doesn’t want to wake his mother and fears what would happen if his father came into the room instead of her. When his tears can no longer fall he stares out his window, watching the rays of the sun peek out from the windowsill. He falls asleep, shivering with exhaustion.  
__________

His mother softly brushes a hand through his hair and Malcolm slowly blinks awake. She pulls him to her and he’s boneless in her arms. He feels disconnected from himself. She kisses his cheek and pulls him from the bed. He’s vaguely aware of her talking but he can’t catch a single word. He can’t let go of the girl. Can’t forget. She was tied down like him. His father probably hurt her too.

His mother says something about a bath and leaves him in the living room. She’s put on the Discovery Channel and sharks swim across the screen, he can't even derive joy from that. He can hear his sister’s happy squeals upstairs. His mother laughing right alongside her. The Discovery Channel is his favorite but he finds his eyes drift from the screen.  
He’s not sure why.

He doesn’t even know what to say.

He reaches for the phone. The line beeps in his ear and he finds his courage dwindling fast. The operator picks up on the first ring. A voice, a woman, answers and asks, “911, what’s your emergency?”

He opens his mouth to speak but the words won’t come.

“Hello?”

He swallows thickly, voice hoarsely wavering as he says, “my—my dad. He’s going to kill the woman in the room.”

_**Part Two: 1998—— The Arrest** _

Gil Arroyo really, really doesn’t feel like answering the prank call directed towards one of New York's oldest and wealthiest families. It’s the job, though— even if, on days like this, he’s not so sure he wants to do it. For starters, it’s a waste of time and New York is a busy city. The likelihood he stops a rape or murder in the time that it takes to drive up to the rich sector of the city and inform a prestigious surgeon of the call made is more likely than him rolling onto a scene—— scene being generously applied in this case—— are astronomically low. 

It just sucks that the kid who made the call is probably too young to understand those consequences.

He knocks briskly against the heavy oak door, sturdy enough that it hurts his knuckles where he raps them against it. Despite the cloud of darkness ascending upon what’s left of the crisp November day, it doesn’t take long for the door to open. In the moment, he notes the lack of lock in place. It strikes him as odd but it draws no additional suspension beside a gnawing feeling in his gut— this is New York, not the deep South. People lock their doors.

However, when you’re the biggest threat within a five—mile radius— what do you have to fear?

“Good Afternoon,” he knows this type. The red cotton cardigan over a dress shirt despite the late hour. Crisp edges of his collar laid perfectly over his tie. Not at all disheveled. “We got a call, a prank call, nothing to worry about.” He works to fill in the good doctor without letting it become a big ordeal. “I just came to make sure everything’s okay over here with your family, no harm no foul.” He shares an easy chuckle with the other man. Who, despite seeming the same age as Gil, looks rougher. Nearly sleep deprived with the restlessness in his eyes. 

“Come on in,” Martin offers, opening the door as further invitation. There’s a reason his profile reads predatory sociopath. Not only is he self—taught, but he’s also not afraid to stand his ground even if that means killing some dumbass cop that winds up on his doorstep. There are some occasions when caution can be thrown to the wind, he finds now is one of them.

He turns back to the man, internally grimacing as he realizes he has no rank or identification on this man. “Can I offer you a cup of tea…” he arches an eyebrow. It’s all the silent inquiry needed to prompt the officer.

“Oh,” the officer smiles and extends his hand. “Officer Gil Arroyo, NYPD.” The two men join hands, a polite but short shake shared between the two of them before Martin pulls his hand back. Gil doesn’t miss the sly way the other man runs his palm against his trouser, brushing away his touch. It strikes him as odd, if not rude, but he doesn’t comment.

Martin motions him closer, further into the house——mansion, really. “A cup of tea then, something to soothe your bones from your hard night at work.” He walks with an air of ease to the dining hall, authority lining his shoulders. Head back and high as glides across the marbled floor, he motions to a child Gil hadn’t noticed before. 

No older than ten, there’s a boy sitting on the sofa in the living room, his body that of a broken doll’s splayed across the soft cashmere. There’s something captivating about the boy’s gaze, Gil can’t help but hold it. Of course, he knows better than to stare but his confusion and curiosity is not piqued because of the disability written across the slim boy’s frame but because of the depth of those blue eyes. Haunted like they’re trying to tell Gil something.

“This is Malcolm,” Martin reaches over and rustles the boy’s hair. 

Gil has spent his life with the badge, a cop going on and off night shift for fellow officers needing to make fast changes to their schedule. Most of the time, he takes shifts for men and women needing the afternoon for their children. Between school plays, impromptu ailments, injuries, and the occasional meltdown the hours of parenting have no official hours like that of a nine to five job. So, Gil knows what a loving doting parent looks like around a child eager to see and love them.

The look, far off and ungrounded, Malcolm makes as his father plants his hand on his shoulder is unnerving. He’s seen this too. Right alongside fist—sized bruises from “falling downstairs” and “wrecking bikes”. Martin Whitly hasn’t even bothered to cover his son’s bruises or the angry red marks on his temples. 

Martin pats his son’s shoulder before moving away from the boy, directing Gil’s attention to the tea on the table between the sofas. “Milk and sugar,” he asks, lifting the lid off of the tea kettle as he pours a single cup. Martin makes a sound at the back of his throat and motions to two extra containers on the tray. “It seems as if I am unprepared to be a proper host. We’re out of milk.” Martin lifts the tiny container, “if you’ll excuse me a moment…”

Gil clears his throat, uncomfortable as Martin genuinely falters waiting for Gil to nod along. As the other man leaves, on the quest for milk the boy’s—— Malcolm’s—— eyes shift to his. Initially, he lowers his gaze. Manners overriding training. Malcolm makes a noise, his fist lightly smacking a pillow to get Gil’s attention. 

Malcolm understands he needs to communicate clearly, just as he had over the phone, but his feelings are overwhelming him. Anxiety makes it unnerving and, when pressured, his speech declines. “Te—Tre—” he can’t speak too loudly and his slurred speech isn’t becoming forthcoming either. 

Gil puts it together, having seen far too many victims so rattled from what they’ve seen their bodies physically can’t stand it. “The tea?” Gil picks the cup up. 

Malcolm nods. He’s unsure how to communicate exactly what he means. “P—Pre…” he shakes his head, growing frustrated with himself. Poison is the word he’s attempting to say but there has to be something—— some way to communicate that’s easier than this. 

Gil isn’t sure what the boy is trying to tell him but he’s quite certain the path they're traveling right now is futile.  
“Kid,” he settles on the edge of the couch. All of his attention zeroed in. “Do you want tea?”

Malcolm brightens, realizing the other man is now on his side too. Saveable. He shakes his head, no he doesn’t want tea.

Gil nods, okay. So, what is it with this tea? “Is it… Is it something about my tea?”

Malcolm nods, eagerness eating away at logic. “Bre—b—bad.” His face lights up, “bad!” He did it! He said it!

Gil nods, sharing in his triumph. Although, he’s still a little confused. “The tea is bad?” He can understand that he doesn’t even really like tea but he can’t understand why that would be important. He raises the cup to his lips, despite the kid’s obvious distress as he does it. The tea is bitter, bad is an understatement. 

“You two getting along?” Martin is all grins as he comes back into the dining room and Gil places the unsettled feeling in his chest. The bitter heaviness on his tongue, the unlocked doors… 

Gil glances back at the kid, anxiety creeping up as he realizes that while his life is now in danger so might the boys. He manages a smile, “he’s a great kid.” Gil notes the lack of fear in Malcolm’s eyes, both astounding and unsettling. He swallows thickly, placing the cup back down on the tray. The room is silent, not even the sound of the grandfather clocks ticking hands break through his mind. Just the sound of his heart thundering in his chest. 

Martin pours a generous amount of milk into Gil’s cup, two spoonfuls of sugar quickly following. He picks the cup back up, pinches it between delicate fingers, and raises an eyebrow in wait for Gil to take it. 

“I’ll… I’ll have to pass on the tea,” Gil stammers. His right—hand creeps towards his gun, his fear rising, and the tension building.

Martin considers his options. 

“Dr. Whitly——”

The sound of bare feet on the tile snaps the attention to the doorway. Jessica Whitly in her bathrobe, barefoot and in her pajamas comes to a stuttering halt. “Oh,” she wraps her robe around her slender figure, blushing behind the brunette curls falling into her face as she looks to the ground. “I didn’t know we had guests.” 

Gil looks back to Martin, hand on his gun. 

Martin’s eyes harden as he looks up to his wife and slowly over to his son. “No worries,” he smiles, “we were just talking.” Martin settles an even, amused glare on Gil. 

The doctor’s head tilt says it all. Gil’s hands are trembling lightly, a cold chill running up his back. It’s going to be a long night.  
__________

Gil watches Dr. Martin Whitly closely as they push him into a squad car. An icy glare shared between the two men one last time as the door shuts and there’s nothing but black reflective glass between them. It’s not his first time seeing a killer but, between the flashing cameras and the reporters, this one is easily the worst case he’s ever worked.

Behind Gil, on the porch, his face cupped between his mother’s palms Malcolm Whitly watches as his father is taken away. There is no relief, strangely, he feels nothing at all. 

The tension he’d worn earlier, watching between the hand Gil had on his gun and his father was nerve—wracking. He was uncertain about how he felt. Did he want his father to die? He’s not even sure he wants his father arrested, either. He just wants…

_**Part Three: 1998—— Regrets** _

His classmates could not care less about any of the many tools he needs to get around or his disability in general. His speech impediment isn’t that bad anymore and no one notices it except him. He’s pretty ‘ok’ in his classmates’ books. Everyone knows his story, every news station in America gave him his five minutes of fame for turning his father in. His lack of friends has nothing to do with him physically and everything to do with him mentally.

“What do you want me to do, Jessica?”

Malcolm pretends like he can’t hear Gil and his mother arguing in the doorway. Always arguing and it’s over him. Do they pull him from school to get better therapy, assisting his mobility and pain but putting him further behind his peers? Gil thinks the option is as obvious as his mother thinks it is, except they don’t agree with one another. Gil thinks he needs the therapy, both physical and psychologist. His mother fears pulling him away from children of his own age will only inhibit his maladaptive “too weird to fit in” mentality. 

So he stands at the top of the landing, looking down at the stairs. He doesn’t want to face Gil, doesn’t want to talk about another horrible week at school like next week will be any different. 

“Jackie said she’s making burritos,” Ainsley tells him. She’s hot on his heels and he’s expressed several times her doing so makes him feel self—conscious about the way he walks. After half a decade of physical therapy he still can’t mimic a normal gait and when Ainsley comes bopping along—— a constant reminder that he’s somehow the ‘lucky’ one despite her getting away scot—free—— it stresses him out.

She’s reminded of his fact when his elbow crutch catches on the rug and he stumbles. “Sorry, Mal.”  
Malcolm closes his eyes, breathing through his nose for ten seconds before opening them again. His voice is calm, his frustration melting away. “It’s not your fault, I—I wasn’t watching.” With more concentration, he manages to get his left leg over the carpet even if it means he leans heavily into the crutches.

Ainsley watches him falter at the top of the steps. The task is daunting. “Why don’t you move your bedroom downstairs,” she whispers, still worried her words will set him off like a ticking bomb. “No one would think any less of you.” His bedroom’s location is a point of conflict in their home. It’s at the top of the stairs and requires that every day he, at minimum, must climb up and down them once. 

The “move your bedroom” argument is staved off for when Malcolm has a severely worse day. When he’s bedridden and miserable, inconsolable. He’s better left, on these days, to curl into his bed and submit to the pain that no opioids, heating pads, or massages have ever helped. His mother will plead with him to allow her to call Gil, that they can put more distance between days like these if he doesn’t struggle up the stairs every day.

But moving his bedroom feels like giving up. 

His cold blue eyes find Ainsley’s and she can see he’s not mad. He shakes his head with a knowing smirk,” I know, Ains.” They can’t understand his need to power through. He smiles down at the first step and begins his descent. What he means is that he knows that his family would come at the drop of a hat to help move his room downstairs but he would feel awful if he moves it. It’s… It’s like being a kid again before his father was sent away. He’s a broken child all over again. Admitting to defeat and he’s tired of defeat.

“Hey my little G—man,” Gil rustles Malcolm’s hair and steps away from Jessica to take both kid’s overnight bags. Malcolm forces a smile for Jackie who waves at him from where Ainsley is now engaging her in conversation. Both bags over his shoulders, Gil slides an arm around Malcolm’s shoulder’s. “How was this week?”

Malcolm trusts his mother has already told the Lieutenant that he missed Tuesday and Wednesday. He forced himself out of bed Tuesday only to fall in the shower like a complete moron when his hip locked up and he was hit with such blinding pain in his knees that he had to army crawl out. He could live without the embarrassment of telling Gil that his mother had found him completely naked on the bathroom floor.

Something no child wants, let alone a seventeen—year—old disabled teenager exhausted by his overbearing support system.

He decides to smile through it. Even if he doesn’t want to. “I fell down the stairs yesterday morning but I aced my calc test.” He leaves out that he was home alone and that it took him ten minutes to find the strength to pull himself upright. He’s aware he’s helping no one when he lies or covers the truth with a better version but he doesn’t want to be comforted. 

“That’s one less fall than last week,” Ainsley supplies in their silence. She always wants him to appease the ground between Malcolm and others. She’ll smooth over his frustrated comments towards Gil or his mother. She’ll even brush off his mean comments. He doesn’t deserve it.

He doesn’t deserve a lot of things. Especially Gil and Jackie. 

“Come on kid,” Gil sighs at Malcolm’s full plate. Malcolm hasn’t even bothered to pick up his fork. Jackie sends him a look from the kitchen, it’s a warning. Gil isn’t in a good mood and Malcolm’s disinterest in life is not going to make it better. “You’re not gonna eat your food? Have you eaten at all today?”

Protective zone of lying, it’s better for everyone involved that they know as little as possible. Don’t tell him more than what he needs to know.

Malcolm shrugs his shoulders, “... had a granola bar.” He can remember the day his life changed forever. One phone call. He wishes he’d never made the phone call. He didn’t save the woman in the basement with him so there was no point. He wishes… He wishes he would have died in that basement, in the teal room.

There would be no crutches, canes, or wheelchairs. There would be no mornings where he’s too weak to stand or in too much pain to think. There’d be nothing. He’d be dead. Maybe he would have grown weaker, died in his sleep. Things probably would have escalated and it would be a slow, painful death but it would be a death. That’s more than he has now.

But he didn’t die. Gil saved him.

Malcolm remembers that night perfectly. The way his father seemed warmer than normal as they made their way down the stairs. He can feel the gurney digging into his back and the needle piercing his flesh. The clouds over his eyes and in his skin.

He can remember banging at the door, waking up on the couch. His mother and Ainsley’s crying on the front porch. Better than anything else, he remembers Gil. Warm, strong arms that encircled him, a soothing voice through the shouts and cries of the madness around.

Gil.

Gil with his spicy cologne.

Gil with his bear hugs and goatee.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm whispers, his eyes falling just short of where Gil’s are. “I… I—” he doesn’t know. There’s no good excuse for his behavior. A heavy hand finds his shoulder and Malcolm looks up to find Gil smiling down at him.

Gil squeezes his shoulder and says nothing as he pulls the plate away. Jackie smiles at him from the kitchen and Malcolm bows his head. He spends so much time in his head, perfecting micro—lies to prevent freaking out his family that he forgets to crawl out every once in a while. It’s so dark in his mind and he’s supposed to be working on that. 

Diving into important things like Calculus.

Or, more importantly, what led to his attempt.

He can’t remember most of it, his therapist explained that sort of thing can happen when a person is traumatized. It’s the way the brain protects itself. Too bad it didn’t happen to the first ten years of his life, then maybe he wouldn’t have a suicide attempt to remember. His therapist hadn’t found that line of thought as clever as he did.

He remembers waking in the hospital and the way they looked at him. The way they’re still looking at him now, almost a month later.

He meets Jackie’s eyes, those intuitive blue eyes. Just like his. She brushes past Gil as they switch positions. She settles into the kitchen chair closest to him and takes his hand in hers. “Is this okay?” She means a hundred things, he knows. That’s Jackie, clever. He nods and she runs her finger over the bandage on his wrist. It covers the angry red skin. “What were you thinking?” He understands... She’s not here to criticize his choices. “I’m not your mother, Malcolm.” She wants to understand.

He shakes his head like he can’t fathom an answer. Her eyes don’t move away and her thumb on his pulse makes him tremble with vulnerability. “I’m—” his voice is a rasp of nerves as he looks at her for any indication that he doesn’t have to go on. “I’m not— I’m not normal.” His protective dome of careful half—truths be damned.

They both know it’s bigger than that. He knows, right now, as he thinks back to climbing into too warm water he’d filled the bathtub with. The way the warmth settled on his chest like the night he found the woman. The razor felt like the needle slipping into his veins and his knees wobbled and his head was fuzzy. He knew that feeling. That feeling was his childhood.

She squeezes his fingers, shaking her head, and pulling him back to the present moment. “You’re seeing it all wrong,” she whispers, hand coming to the side of his head. “Think about the things you can do, the things you can control.” 

She looks over her shoulder, “if you’re so awful, why does your baby sister think you hung the moon and named stars?” She strokes his cheek, “who cares about normal. I like you better the way you are, dark humor and loud laugh.” She scoots closer, bringing their heads to touch. “You make life worth living, you silly boy.”

He struggles to keep his tears at bay, smiling and laughing oddly as a tear falls down his cheek. Jackie brushes it away and presses her warm palm to his cheek. He looks at her, lower lip trembling. “It—” he hasn’t talked about it. None of them have, not really. “It hurt,” he whispers. “It hurt so much.” She presses her lips to his forehead, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. The weight across his shoulders suddenly doesn’t feel as heavy, his heart light.

She unwraps him and he’s suddenly too cold without her right there beside him. Two fingers press under his chin and he lifts his head, smiling when he looks up to Jackie. She smiles with a wink but says nothing, Malcolm already knows. He’s a fighter. He’s smart. He’s the boy who gets knocked down and who gets back up and with love he’s learning to take his time.

“Eat,” Jackie fills the empty space where his plate had been with a peeled orange. She’s not leaving it up for debate. Gil watches him out of the corner of his eye but Jackie doesn’t. Normally, he might venture to say something about Gil’s attention but after everything, he’s put the poor man though he doesn’t have the heart.

Ainsley runs into the kitchen stopping when she realizes Gil can hear her. She smiles sheepishly and grins at him. They’re not supposed to run through the house, a problem mostly at Gil and Jackie’s because Ainsley gets so excited about being at their house.

“What is it, Ains?” Gil raises an eyebrow and puts a hand on her shoulder, stopping her nervous twisting as she stands in place. His smile is soft as he regards her. It’s only been two weeks since he saw them and yet he missed them both unspeakably. It was weird, the house and station and the back of his car without one of them. No Malcolm to get picky over what station the radio played on or Ainsley to give him those sad little pouty eyes when he says no to stopping for sweets.

She smiles, “I wanna play checkers. Will you play with me?” She can see his hesitation and pulls his hand off her shoulder, squeezing his fingers. “Please, Gil? Please?”

He caves, like always, and lets her pull him to the living room.

Jackie watches the exchange with a smile, “he’s missed having you two around.” Malcolm knows she’s speaking to him but prefers placing another orange slice on his tongue so he doesn't have to engage in discussing exactly why it is they haven’t been over. “I have too.”

It comes back to him, it always does.

Ainsley can’t have horse riding lessons because Jessica doesn’t like leaving Malcolm home alone for long amounts of time… especially, now.

Gil missed two weeks from work because Malcolm decided to slit——

Right. He’s not supposed to think like that. Ainsley can’t have horse riding lessons because she’s already balancing ballet and school. Gil missed time because Malcolm was in the hospital and the station wrote it off because they know the relationship.

Malcolm clears his throat, “she’s talked about it all week.” He can faintly remember on Tuesday when she crawled into his bed with him. Their mother had sent her up with a heated blanket and Ainsley had tucked it around the two of them before settling into his side. She had talked his ear off but hearing her excitement helped with some of the pain.

“And you?” Jackie is the only person that pushes him to express his emotions. She tilts her head and watches him. Gil and Jessica always comment that when Malcolm and Jackie tilt their heads they look exactly alike. That heavy intuitive gaze in their blue eyes.

Malcolm nods, “it’s…” He doesn’t want to say home but… This house is home more than his own could ever be. “It’s good to be home,” he looks down and realizes he’s finished the orange. His stomach rumbles, reminding him just how little he’s eating as of late.

Jackie smiles at the sound and she hands him a napkin of color. Two sliced strawberries, half a banana, and another orange. He starts this one with a little more fever, smiling when the orange drips down his chin. She smiles too, “I love you, bright boy.” She rustles his hair.

He looks up at her and he knows she means it. He bites into a strawberry and smiles when he finds it to be sweet. 

He’ll spend his whole life wondering how it is that her love seeped into everything she made, even the fruits she cuts. “I love you too, Jackie.”

**_Part Four: 2019—— The Last Victim_ **

Steering Malcolm by his shoulders, Gil guides him past the busy bullpen and straight to his office. While a part of Malcolm is distracted by this—— his brain torn between the paranoia that Gil is embarrassed by him and the rational that Gil is simply trying to keep Malcolm from being distracted—— he’s equally struck by the sense of deja vu that hits him in the chest as he steps into Gil’s office. The layout of Gil’s office hasn’t changed since Malcolm was a boy and now, standing in it once again as a grown man, he can still feel that twist in the bottom of his stomach—— like he’s in the principal office in grade school. 

Gil slides into his desk chair, sinking into it’s comfortable worn—in and well—loved faux leather. “So,” he leans back in the old chair, tucking his hands behind his head. “You gonna tell me why you’re in town or you gonna make me guess?”

Malcolm tries to preserve some sort of notion of his hard—earned adult status but his head hangs like a beaten dog. Essentially, he’s ashamed that his big break has come to a stuttering halt like an overheated car on a packed street. “I didn’t get fired if that’s what you’re asking.” He knows that if he looks at Gil, the older man will see right through him. He’s a neon sign in a dark alley. Easy to read. That vulnerability settles poorly on his stomach. He waits for a breath, Gil’s eyes still reflecting nothing but the patience and ease he’d greeted Malcolm with. “I…”

His back aches with the stress, the guilt he wears as tension that ripples down his sore muscles. “Wasn’t right,” his voice is a blatant lie. It’s a honey trap and he’s handed it right to Gil. His attempt to backtrack lands him straight on his ass. “I mean—— I mean it was right, it just wasn’t… It’s not like it was too hard…”

Gil nods, still patient, and waiting despite Malcolm’s obvious struggle. His nod garners Malcolm’s shoulders to sag with defeat. While Gil has said nothing, Malcolm knows he’s turning over Malcolm’s reaction. Silently, anger washes over Gil’s face in a wave—— there in a strong inhale but gone in a sweep. Gil understands. “They weren’t accommodating.” 

Malcolm sits in torment, feeling shame hot in his cheeks as he convinces himself he’s running from his problems. Running to his mommy and daddy to fix the problem he created.

Gil shakes his head, “bastards.”

Malcolm clears his throat, uncomfortable, and face impossibly hot. “I mean, it’s not like they have to be. It’s not——” he stops talking. Taking in the frustration in Gil’s bent eyebrows, the crease in his furrow. His heart continues to pound in his chest, anxiety swelling, but rationally, he understands. He is reacting with shame, his half—hearted excuse is another self—destructive dismissal of his own needs. 

He’s not perfect. Nor should he be. He’s human. The FBI hurt him. They abused their power and put him down. Leaving was… safe.

Gil leans forward in his chair, forearms settling in his desk, and fingers crossed. “They do,” Gil’s voice is softer than the expression he wears. His best attempt at reminding Malcolm that he’s outraged with the bureau, not with Malcolm. “They’re a government organization, Malcolm. Jesus,” he runs a hand over his face. Tired and fed up for Malcolm. For the crap that he’s been dealing with his whole life. “What did they say to you? What happened?”

Before even turning in his badge, Malcolm knew he could never tell anyone what happened. Not the full truth. He clears his throat, doing his best to inconspicuously sit up straighter. To harden himself and his lie. “Nothing. I left. I put in my resignation from my position and I left. Came home.” Never mind the worst two weeks of his life in Quantico as the paperwork worked its way through the system. He was sure he’d die before he could leave. The Virginia humidity or the elevators that never seemed to be able to stay working. His team leader was a bastard atop it all and that didn’t help.

Gil doesn’t push, mercifully. He just sighs and, somehow, that’s worse. “How are things now?” He changes the subject easily, leaning back in his chair once again. His eyes meet Malcolm’s in a way that makes Malcolm feel like bacteria on a petri dish. Observed. 

His face tightens with the unsettled emotion in his chest. He’s not sure how to take the question. Malcolm considered the question and panics without a thought out answer. He doesn’t have an answer in general. “Uhm,” his head shakes on its own accord. “I, uh, I’m fine. New York is… New York is home. It’s good to be back.”

Gil nods his head in approval. He has officially dropped the matter of Virginia and the FBI for now, set on bringing it up another time. If Malcolm wants to talk, Gil trusts he knows that Gil’s door is always open. Mood lightened and Gil thrilled his kid is back, he thinks a little celebration is in order. “Got time for a drink before high life sweeps you away?”

Malcolm smiles. By high life, he knows Gil just means his mother but it’s still funny after all this time. “I think I can manage one drink.”

On the other side of the blinds, at their desk in the bullpens, Dani and JT watch this interaction. 

JT stands with his arms cross on his chest, a scowl aimed at the man sitting in Gil’s office. He’s young, brown hair swept to the side with too much gel, and an expensive—looking suit set across his shoulders. Gil and the man laugh simultaneously, Gil prodigy the man two fingers worth of his good bourbon.

“Stop staring, JT.”

He looks over at Dani, his frown pulling the corners of his mouth down in a childish out. He finds Dani unbothered by the image before them. He can’t hide his aggravation. “You aren’t even curious?” he inquires. He glances back into the office, “Gil is practical eating out of that guy’s lap! Hell, he isn’t even a guy, Dani. Dude’s, like, younger than you.”

Dani looks up at that, lips flat with her own aggravation. She can see the guy in Gil’s office. Does she like the fact that Gil’s always open door is currently shut? No, but she trusts Gil.

JT opens his mouth to take back the remark or correct it at the very least but before he can the office door opens. Gil’s laughing at something the guy has said. The man in question’s cheeks flushes as he sees there’s an audience outside the office’s door. Gil doesn’t stop walking, headed straight for Dani’s desk.

He raps his knuckles against her desk, grinning. “Dani Powell, this is Malcolm Bright, psychologist, forensic profiler… acquired taste.” He motions between the two before turning to JT. Malcolm and JT are making just enough eye contact for Gil to come to the exhausting conclusion that the two of them are going to giving him a lot of grey hairs in the next to near future. “JT, Bright. Bright, JT. You won’t like each other.” Gil puts a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, letting the weight of his palm settle naturally, and hoping to sense any prominent anxieties on Malcolm’s body.

His unease, though, is overwhelming. As normal as it to be stared at in his day—to—day life, the undivided attention JT has settled on Malcolm is unnerving. His fight—or—flight is going crazy under JT’s scrutiny. He doesn’t need to hear Jt’s thoughts to know the detective is going to some presumptuous assumptions all of which make Malcolm uneasy.

With a pat to his back, Gil pulls Malcolm back to the present. Gil nods to JT and Dani, “I’ll be in my office. I want the Harlem case paperwork on my desks before you guys leave for the afternoon.”

“I already——” JT starts with a frown. 

Gil waves his hand up, “I know.” He turns his attention to Dani, “I was talking to her.”  
Dani frowns, rolling her eyes in a way that confuses Malcolm. She’s clearly comfortable with Gil, at ease. He hates to admit it but there’s a spark of jealousy in his chest at the thought, at the implication that maybe Detective Powell is as close to Gil as he is. His point is only further proven when Gil pats his neck, aiming to guide Malcolm away. Dani makes a face and mouths words to herself in a childish but decidedly mocking way.

He can’t help but grin.  
__________

Dani Powell learns quickly that no matter how many times the Bright guy comes late, he’s the golden boy. The show pony. There are no repercussions… he just——

This week, Bright has come in late twice and it’s Wednesday. 

He sweeps through the precinct like a ghost, just lacking the fluidity or grace a ghost might have. He looks like death wrapped in a Tom Ford suit and winter coat. The bags under his eyes are nearly designer, she wouldn’t recognize him without them. She’s watched the progression of his limp grow worse each day. More pronounced.

He blows past the bullpen, past his desk covered in files and paperwork, and things he hasn’t done. He’s completely lacking the flashy cane typically seen at his side. Which doesn’t make much sense considering how much it looks like he needs it right now. 

He almost makes it to Gil’s office.

Everyone stands up as he stumbles—— Dani’s heart thundering in her chest as an impossibly long list of everything that could be wrong starts to form. She notices just how pale his face looks, eyes pinched in pain. One hand goes to his hip and the other is thrown out to catch himself. His thin fingers find her desk and she can hear the way the pain steals the breath from his lungs. His eyes are unfocused, anxious as his brain screams to make an excuse for his mediocracy, but he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Bright?” She stands up, hesitant to reach out and help. He’s still… new. She hasn’t acquired an understanding of the man Gil seems to trust too blindly. All she knows is what she can see and, well not to quote the Karate Kid but, trusting what you can see alone is stupid. Especially with men like Malcolm Bright. There’s something off about him, more so today. More than she can just see at his surface.

"Easy—" Gil comes straight out of his office, reading glasses pushed up into his hair. He grabs Malcolm's elbow shifting Malcolm to lean against him. "Dani get me a chair."

She does as instructed, unsure what her place is in a situation like this. She pulls her own chair around, recognizing it’s the closest and places it behind Malcolm's knees. Gil eases Malcolm into it and Dani does her best not to stare.  
" —was at the doctor, " Malcolm explains in a low grunt, eyes pinched. His mouth quivers as his hip locks into its joint. Gil sees him through it, not letting go of Malcolm's shoulders until he's fully seated.

"What’d they say?”

“Amputation." Dani tries not to visibly react and she takes Gil's flat frown as he's not reacting either. Malcolm fills in further. "If I want pain management, they can cut my leg off. Block some nerves off. Other than that, they’ve got nothing." Malcolm moves stiffly, obviously still in pain. He shakes his head, "but they'll never go through with it." He grunts, "they never do."

Gil glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He's not surprised, she can see it in the low glint of his eyes. Surprise is a peppered eyebrow raised to his hairline and a tight frown. Gil just looks… tired, a sad frown, and an exasperated sigh. "You're not thinking…" Gil raises an eyebrow and Dani puts it together.

What she doesn't know is he has thought about it, amputation. Had them all convinced it would be okay, he could handle it. He did, too, up until the surgeon they had lined up took one look at him and announced he wouldn't cut up a kid like that. Not if he didn’t have to.

Malcolm shakes his head, "no." He digs his thumb into the muscle of his thigh, further until it hurts so bad it brings tears to his eyes. "No, " his voice trembles, "but then I suppose I wasn't expecting an answer I was just hoping…" His voice trails and he doesn’t know what he was hoping for. A cure—all?

Gil pats his shoulder, putting his arm around Malcolm so he can hold his neck in his palm. "I know, kid. I know." He shakes his head, “you good now?” He asks it in a low voice. Malcolm considers it, the tone and the question, for a moment before nodding. Gil sighs and stands back to his full height. "I know you two have paperwork…" Gil eyes them all and it's true. They've got lots of paperwork. He leaves them with a flourish, knocking his reading glasses back down on his face and heading to his office.

Malcolm makes the move to stand up and clenches his teeth in pain. He’s not going anywhere.

Hesitatinyl, Dani points to the back of the chair, “I can… I can push you to the desk?” For a moment she thinks he’s going to brush the idea away but she watches his blue eyes glance over to his desk and he nods in defeat. “It’s no big deal,” she offers, softly. "I used to push my brothers around in office chairs all the time." Not to mention, Malcolm is a lot lighter than her brothers. The ride is smooth and Malcolm can’t decide if he’s frustrated with being helped or glad that it’s her.

"You can just—" flawlessly they switch chairs, his old chair now hers. JT watches this all with a frown. Malcolm thanks her, awkwardly and she brushes it off, already turning her attention to her work. "Thanks, " he rubs at his face, scratching the overgrown scruff on his cheeks. Normally, he would have shaved but he’d woken up late and couldn’t spare the time.

He rubs tiredly at his hip for another minute, trying to push down the anxiety wound tight around his chest. Gil is thrilled to have him here, he has to remind himself. This isn't the FBI. This is the precinct he was raised in. This is Gil. He inhales slowly, pauses, and exhales. He’s fine. He’s okay.

Dani’s not. Everything she has just been told is too much at once. She’s known this guy for about two weeks, just long enough to put together who he is. It was a learning curve, the whole last name change but it turns out where Malcolm Bright goes the media follows. She knows what the news knows but that’s one—sided. Something tells her the medias painted hero, never seen with a cane or walking aide, is not the man in their bullpen. This man hides grimaces into stale coffee and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born. He’s a little more… dimensional.

“I don’t like him,” JT confesses in the break room, pouring his fifth cup of coffee for the day. He settles his hips against the counter, letting the cool top bite into his back.

Dani looks up from her own cup, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Huh?” She hadn’t been paying attention to him, lost in her own thoughts as she played her earlier interaction with Bright over in her head.

JT turns his scowl away from Bright’s direction and shakes his head at Dani, “I said I don’t like him.” He pulls a long drink from his mug, grimacing at the taste. “Something’s… Something’s off about him.”

Dani huffs a chuckle, “Really, JT? Off?” She takes a sip of her tea, content with her choice to cut off coffee after lunch. She glances up at her partner and he frowns at her, making a face in acknowledgment that he could have chosen a better way to state his feelings. Especially, when the man they were talking about could possibly overhear or when his usage of ‘off’ might imply the man’s limp.

“I don’t mean the—the…” JT motions with his hand, obviously not sure what word to use. “You know?” He settles back against the counter, taking another sip and this time swallowing it thoughtfully without making a face. “I just… I don’t trust him, not yet.”

Dani takes her time putting her stuff back, careful to hide her tea to avoid being mocked by any of the foot cops. “No one’s asking you to, JT.” She stops just short of the doorway, between JT and the frame, “but… he seems pretty harmless. Plus, I don’t think he’s hiding much muscle under that Tom Ford vest. He’s not much of a threat.”

She slips out and JT watches, frown still pulling his mouth down. JT can’t put a finger on what it is but that doesn’t mean he’ll abandon the feeling in his gut. “Right,” JT mumbles into his coffee. He won’t trust Dani’s assessment, anyway. She’s got a long track record with bad men. To put it mildly, she’s got a shit taste in men.

“Jamie,” Malcolm snaps his fingers and nods towards the other man. He knows that the detective’s name is not Jamie, but JT, yet, childishly, he prefers this small taunt. Rather than dwell on just how fast JT throws his defenses up with a frown and his arms wrapped tight around his chest, Malcolm leans heavily on the cane in his right hand. 

“What have we got here?”  
He pays the others no mind, letting their voices wash over him without engaging their words. His eyes fall over the scene, bending his shoulders over to angle himself with the victim as close as he can. He twists his lips, in thought. The mouth twist is a lesson he learned the hard way — it’s better than moving them as he thinks to himself. He doesn’t know Gil’s team and, after the FBI, he’d rather hide his peculiarities than have someone mock them.

“What’s the matter?” Dani watches him with a frown. The way he shifts his weight to his hands as he contorts his body, all weight off his legs. She considers the comment she made to JT a few days ago ‘I don’t think he’s hiding much muscle under that Tom Ford vest’. His arms don’t tremble, they’re unusually still. She considers maybe she was wrong about him being nothing but a scrawny nerd.

He inhales sharply and looks up, finding her eyes. “Hm?” He pieces together her comment quickly and motions vaguely. “Just… profiling.” He stands up, all upper body strength as he maneuvers the sleek black cane under him. He frowns, a comment JT made coming back to mind, despite the fact he’d been doing his best to ignore the detective. “She was waiting for someone,” he agrees and points down to the wine staining the floor. “A lover. Unfortunately, the wrong man showed up.”

He uses the cane to point as he speaks, occasionally drifting to make comments more to himself. Until it clicks, fully. “There’ll be an injection point into her iliac crest and a third near her heart.” He lets his head fall, shoulders sagging as he tries to force away memories.

“How the hell do you know that?”

Malcolm doesn't even have to look up to know it’s JT, the skepticism alone is enough. “Our killer is a copycat,” Malcolm looks to Gil. “He’s mimicking another serial killer, Dr. Martin Whitly. The Surgeon.” He tries his best to settle down the anxiety winding tight in his stomach. His right—hand holds up the case file, it trembles.

“Yeah?” Dani rises to her feet. She bites the corner of her lip, “and you—” The name suddenly clicks and her jaw can’t shut fast enough. She bites her lip, wishing she wasn’t watching his back for a reaction. All she sees is the defeat in his crooked shoulder. She looks to Gil but his eyes are zeroed in on Malcolm.

Malcolm leaves them right there, leaning noticeably more on the cane than he had before. It’s phantom, all in his mind, but he can feel those hands on him. The sluggish murk of drugs feeding into his hand and taking over his mind. Martin Whitly is in his head, he always has been.

———————————————

“Dude’s sleeping,” JT informs Dani, arms crossed on his chest as he looks at Bright peacefully slumped in the dark conference room. Rather than look at Bright she looks up at JT. His pure hatred for Bright is something she can’t understand. He’s a weird guy. He has this tendency to talk too much and say the wrong things. A bad combination. She doesn’t trust him, not yet, but her distrust isn’t nearly as prominent as JT’s.

Dani lazily looks over Malcolm. He looked exhausted when they left him there, his profile delivered and his job done. She heard Gil telling Bright he’d give him a ride home but Bright had refused and set back into the case. She didn’t comment on the face Gil made, one she’s all too familiar with. His dad's face. “Yeah,” Dani agrees, leaning back in her chair. “People do that, JT.”

JT frowns. They’re partners and, usually, they agree on most things. They have an easy friendship. They like the coffee from the soup joint three blocks down the best. If they order lunch, they get it from the Chinese shop across town and split their orders in half. She gets the lo mein and bourbon chicken and he’ll get fried rice and orange chicken. It’s simple friendship. She’s supposed to understand why he doesn’t like Bright. He understands why she doesn’t like the Johnson rookie on the third shift.

She stands from her desk, “I’m going out for coffee before the shop closes. Do you want me to get you a cup or would you rather stand here and creepily watch the profiler take a nap?” She already knows he’s rolling his eyes and doesn’t wait for his answer because she knows that too. She hears him puff out a breath, his version of a frustrated sigh. She smiles, keeping her back to him so he doesn't see it. “Double—shot espresso with a blueberry scone?”

He grunts and that’s a yes.

She rolls her eyes at him, so stubborn.

“Really,” JT’s voice sounds more like a whine as he observes her moving towards the conference room. “You’re gonna ask him?”

She keeps moving to the conference room, “if we _want_ coffee, he must _need_ one.” She does falter, just a little, when she sees him. His face is pinched, his right hand twisting as if attempting to escape an invisible hold.

“Don’t...Don’t go…”

She glances over her shoulder at JT but his attention is already on something else. She steps into the room, not sure how or if she should wake him.

“Don’t! Don’t go!”

“Bright?”

He bolts upright, mouth open as he screams. His feet are underneath him, barreling right towards her. Eyes open but unseeing as he tries to escape. He collides with her, limbs blindly reaching past her to get farther away.

The breath is knocked from her lungs but she reacts out of instinct and pulls his body down. He fights her, trying to pull her towards him and away at the same time. Words are tumbling from his lips but they make no sense, just mumbled panic.

She throws a hand up as she sees the officers gathering around them, their guns drawn and pointed to Bright. Her heart beats loudly in her ears, her own safety disregarded as she realizes they’re trying to shoot Bright. “Hey! No, no, no, no!” She moves her body between them, pulling his limbs from where they reach out to be trapped between their bodies. Protecting them as she pulls him tighter to her chest. “Don’t, don’t, don’t. He’s asleep! He’s…” Her words are falling on deaf ears and she moves her attention to him instead. “Bright, relax. Relax. Bright, it’s a dream, okay? Just a bad dream.” She can feel his fight draining, his arms wrapping tight around her back.

His chin rests on her shoulder and she holds him back, eyes locked on the officers above them. “Just a bad dream, see? You’re okay. We’re okay.” She keeps looking at them, daring them to open fire. “Put your guns away,” she sneers, “he’s one of us!”

“ ‘m sorry,” Bright pants, senses slowly coming back to him. He tries to pull himself away, untangle their limbs but fire shoots up his left thigh and he gasps at the pain. He feels Dani’s arms tighten around his chest, keeping him from moving away and from hurting himself. “Sorry,” he gasps, breathless. “I—I…”

He looks up and JT’s looking down at them. His face twists and he looks up at the cops still gathering around. “What,” JT barks out, throwing his hands up in a dominant proclamation of his taking control of the situation. “Get to work!” He shouts at them, staring down the few stragglers left. “Go!” He lets out an aggravated puff and bends down on a knee beside them. “You good?”

Malcolm just stares at him, his mouth open but he can’t find words.

“I think Bright might need some help up,” Dani says softly. Her voice traveling no further than the three of them. His cheeks still flush but she’s right.

“Sorry,” he whispers, swallowing thickly.

JT stands looking around for the cane he knows he saw Bright with earlier. “No sweat man.” JT offers Bright a hand, “can you lean on me? I can get you back to the conference room.” Bright just nods and lets Dani do the untangling. She’s delicate, which he isn’t expecting. As she moves her legs, she’s hesitantly looking up at him. He appreciates it when she slips her right leg out from under his left. The movement sends fire through his nerves and he bites his lip. “Do you want me to—” she stops moving, hoping that will help.

He shakes his head. “No, no. Just—Just— Ahh!” Hot tears fall from his eyes as she finally pulls away and he lets out a shaky breath, forcing himself to pull in the next. It takes everything in him to keep breathing, forcing each inhale and exhale until his brain isn’t clouded with pain. “I’m okay,” he reassures them but his arms tremble as he leans on them.  
“Let’s just get you off the floor, man.” JT does the heavy lifting, pulling Malcolm to his feet. “Just lean against me,” he can feel Malcolm’s tense muscles. “I can take it, man, just lean.” There's still hesitation and JT knows that’s his fault. Maybe he was a little too presumptuous.

Dani slides under Bright’s other arm, daring either of them to stop her.

“You set the pace,” JT says because he knows guys like Malcolm and he doesn’t want him to push himself. That doesn’t mean JT likes him though, he needs that to be clear.

Malcolm tentatively steps forward, testing how much weight he can put on his left leg. Frustrated tears slip down his face as it refuses to move at all.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dani whispers, wrapping an arm around his back. She solidifies her hold a little better and nods to JT. Together, he takes another step and this time they all move. “Slow and steady,” Dani mumbles, watching his legs for a sign to keep going. It takes them five minutes to clear the distance it took him only ten seconds before but they make it to the chair.

“I knew we could do it,” Dani beams at the two men, her surge of adrenaline still pumping through her.

Malcolm looks haggardly up at her, chest heaving as he takes each breath in. “That makes one of us,” but he says it with a grin.

JT lets out a deep chuckle and puts a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, “I didn’t think you were getting off that floor, man.”

Malcolm nods with his own smile, “to be honest, me neither. I’d still be there if it wasn’t for you.” His face falls a little more sincere and he looks between the two of them. “Thanks for what you did back there. You didn’t have to do that.”  
JT shrugs the thanks off, “Gil brought you on the team and that makes you… it makes you a part of the team and we protect our own around here.” He puts an awkward hand on Malcolm’s shoulder.

They all share a smile.

“I knew you would make a good team,” Gil’s voice startles them and they all look up to find him leaning against the door, arms crossed. His face is full of pride but it’s hard to tell if it’s pride in them or in himself. It feels as if they’ve been caught red—handed. Each a little embarrassed to be seen getting along with one another. 

At the same time… there’s a concrete, undeniable bond between them now. 

——————————

“Flames?”

It takes a moment for Malcolm to connect Dani’s statement to a meaning. Flames. Malcolm looks down at the cane hooked over the arm of the chair he’s sitting at, following her eyes to it. He hadn’t been paying a lot of attention this morning, it took everything in him just to get out the door. He nods, “makes me look like I’m going faster.” That’s what Malcolm’s freshman roommate said when he gifted it to him.

She smiles but it seems adamant, hesitant like she’s not sure she’s actually allowed to laugh. He considers his delivery must be off. The cane had been a gift from a long time ago and to say Malcolm and his freshman college roommates were friends… it would be a stretch, indeed.

He shakes his head, “I’m kidding.” He lifts the cane off the arm of the chair, holding it up for her to see. As if to wave it and clear the air that the cane and his joke were light—hearted. “It was a gag gift,” he leaves the additional ‘of sorts’ off for the sake of conversation and any sympathy she may throw his way. “I just left my apartment a little disoriented this morning,” as soon as the words leave his mouth he realizes he’s admitted to not being okay. He sits with his mouth open for a moment before adding, “I ran out of coffee.” Coffee, he berates himself, that’s stupid.

She’ll never believe that but… She doesn’t need to know he’s been sleepless for three days now. That he spent the mornings staring at the ceiling. Hot pokers of pain working higher and higher up his left leg. No amount of pacing amounting to relief. Painkillers do nothing, failing at their jobs to dull any of his pain. So he’s left to deal. To work through the pain on his own. 

Murder is an… unexpected replacement for the pain killers. As twisted as that seems. 

“You look like shit.”

Malcolm looks up, file in hand. He was immersed in the words he was finding. Edrisa’s notes on the body adding to the profile he has in his head. There’s one piece, one aspect, that he can’t nail and that will continue to fall out of his grasp until Dani gives it to him. It’s why, of all people to come barging into the conference room while everyone else is out collecting evidence, he least expected Dani to be the one standing at the door. But maybe he’s underwhelmed how crucial the information she holds is. Maybe he’s prepared for why she’s withholding it. 

It takes him a moment to really process what she’s said. This is the second she’s come into the conference room which means that what she’s sitting on is important. “I look—” his brain recalls what she said and frowns. “I do look pretty bad, don’t I?” He can’t help a small chuckle, a tired hand running over his face.

Dani doesn’t respond to the bait. “I need you to drop the Estimé thing.” She drops her shoulders for a moment, leaning her weight forward on the table. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” she looks up now. She finds his eyes quickly, frowning. “Bright, I know Estimé, he wouldn't do this.”

Malcolm looks away, empathy outweighs logic in his mind. Severing the contact, he can take a steadying breath, force his brain to consider what’s been given to him. “I want to help, Dani, but I don’t know him.” He looks back up at her now, “I can’t rule him out. You won’t see any evidence that points towards him and Gil only sees evidence that does. Confirmation bias is everywhere in this investigation and I—I...” He runs his right hand down his face, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. “I have to consider him as a suspect.” When he looks up he’s surprised to find just how desperate she looks. It breaks him, a little. His reserve considerably dropped, decimated by the look in her eyes.

The door to the room opens and they both turn, not expecting another person to enter the room. Behind the door is Gil leading the others in right behind him. Dani squares her shoulders and schools her face, hiding her emotion with indifference. Malcolm watches her pull her walls back up and he’s struck by the fact that she lowered them at all—— and with him of all people. 

Edrisa wastes no time, she jumps straight into a theory of her own all the while connecting it to details presented to them through pictures and her calculated cause of death. Malcolm finds his attention split. He yearns to piece this murder together with every fiber in his being, leaving it unsolved would unravel the grasp he has on sanity. Make it unbearable to live. Yet, his eyes keep wandering to Dani. Something isn’t right.

Her face is drawn tight, a grimace but there’s something more. Hidden.

“Bright?”

Malcolm jerks to attention looking around the room until he realizes it’s Edrisa talking to him. An ember of embarrassment lights up his cheeks and he swallows thickly around his discovery. “Hmm, I’m afraid you’ll have to repeat that, Edrisa. It seems my mind slipped,” he flashes her a soft smile and she returns it. Happily filling him in on the news he’d been distracted from.

He’s placed that drawn tight frown Dani wears. A grimace of dissatisfaction but of embarrassment just like his heated cheeks a few moments ago. Why is she embarrassed?

Gil sighs, shaking his head at something Edrisa says and once again Malcolm has managed to miss it all. “Alright,” he leans over the table, resting his weight on his shoulders as he thinks over their next plan. “Tomorrow morning JT and I will go talk to Estimé—”

Dani straightens up in her chair, opening her mouth to object.

Gil shakes his head at her once, a stern glare signaling this is not a matter he’s willing to debate with her. “JT and I will go.” His voice is stern, easily mistaken as angry. It’s laced with an undertone that begs Dani to see his reason and begs her to listen to him just this once.

Her face twists into a glare and she looks away from him. Clearly frustrated that he doesn’t trust her to handle one simple interview. She’s misread the situation though. It’s not at all that he doesn't trust her. He doesn't want her to get hurt. He’d never forgive himself if she gets hurt when he could prevent it.

Gil looks away from Dani and to the rest of the room. “Go home. Get some rest. We have another long day ahead of us.”

JT listens. He goes home and he has dinner with Tally with no idea of what kind of trouble Dani and Malcolm are getting themselves into downtown.

“No cane?” After her initial aggravation, Dani finds herself confused at his presence. Not only is he crashing her steak—out, but he’s also missing that signature cane from earlier. She’s no expert but something tells her he’s not supposed to look in pain naturally.

Malcolm pulls up a pretty convincing smile, shaking his head. “Herd mentality,” he raises his eyebrows and motions to the group of girls she hadn’t noticed. Right, girls stick together and Malcolm, no matter how small and non—threatening she views him to be, is seen as a threat. An outsider. “Makes me look like a douchebag in clubs like these.” He blows a steady sigh from his lips, more a grimace than anything else. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

Dani grinds her teeth, he shouldn’t let what other people think get in the way but she supposes there’s a double standard for him. He looks healthy at first glance, like someone who can handle himself. As she’s observed, he makes a lot of crash landings. Pushing himself, too often, until he nearly breaks. Stumbling and nearly failing to sit himself down before his hip gives out under him.

She nods her head, instead of saying anything. That tends to be the safest bet with Malcolm. “Girls can be vicious,” but her comment is drowned out by the sounds of the club. She doesn’t find the chance to ask why he’s here before a man makes his presence known.

Malcolm’s shoulders roll back, spine straightening as he stands tall. She’s just as aware of the threat of the man before them. Rather than impose his bigger frame on either of them the man motions to the window above, “Estimé wants to talk to you.”

“Oh!” Malcolm grins, clearly excited. He looks over at Dani, smiling even when her frowning face stares back at him. He motions for her to follow the man, taking up the rear. A chance to meet this Estimé guy will be fantastic for the profile! He’s beyond excited.

It takes Malcolm less than a minute to come to the conclusion that the man before him is innocent. Between his darting eyes, the sweat across his brow, and his fidgeting hands there are about a hundred different stress responses this man is exhibiting. His attention is pulled away when Dani makes a comment, begging Estimé to cooperate with her.

“Oh, he didn’t do it.” The attention of the room is pulled to him, away from Dani and Estimé. He smiles, offering the man a small wave before stepping up to Dani’s side. He moves his head to direct his voice to Dani, “he didn’t. There is no way that this man killed our guy.”

“I—” Estimé stands up but is pushed back down immediately, the room around them breaking up as gunshots are fired down in the club. Bullets fly and Dani’s hands push Malcolm’s shoulders, the two of them falling in opposite directions.

A wave of powder falls over his face and he sucks in a deep breath, his eyes rolling back into his head as it hits his nose. He coughs it out around him, just cycling the cloud through his body. He’s still flat on his back, struggling to remember how to breathe and think when two hands grab him and haul him onto his feet. He stumbles, forgetting to lock his knees under his body as his hip refuses to support the weight.

“Alright,” Dani breathes, pulling, more than guiding, him out of the small room and the puddle of what she thinks is cocaine. He stumbles but she keeps him pulled tight to her body. Luckily, he’s not that heavy.

She sets him down on one of the couches downstairs, looking around her to make sure there aren’t any more unseen dangers. For the most part, the club is deserted with nothing left but a few sobbing patrons being ushered out by dates and friends.

Gil is going to kill them.

“What were you thinking!?” Gil is beyond mad and it makes her feel like a child. Guilty and embarrassed that she’s being chewed out in front of everyone but she keeps her ground. Malcolm… is high and mumbling to himself on the couch. He’s no help.

She can’t maintain his eye contact, letting her eyes drop to the floor. “You weren’t——”

“I wasn’t what, Dani?” He’s shaking, not from anger but fear because they both could have died tonight. Then where would the murder be? Down a profiler and a detective—— down two children, more like. He swallows another reprimand, his point was made and there’s no use continuing his frustration. “Are you good?”

She clenches her jaw, “fine.”

He nods and his eyes wander over to Malcolm.

Malcolm mutters something to himself, he must find it funny because he laughs head rolling maniacally.

“Take him home,” Gil orders, ignoring Dani’s protest. “Take care of the mess you made.” He looks back at her, “if you’re going to act like a child, then I’ll treat you like one.” He calls JT over and dismisses her, “you’re off the case. Go home.”

She bites back frustrated tears. She wants to be mad at him, to yell and kick and scream because it’s not fair but… “Come on,” she hauls Malcolm to his feet. This is her mess and it’s only fair that she has to clean it up. “Don’t puke in my car.”

The ride is relatively short, ten minutes from the club to his apartment. She really hopes this isn’t going to be a pattern between them.

“Let’s throw axes!” Before she can stop him, he’s standing on the back of the couch. He plops down on the sofa with a small grunt. His attention is on a roll, moving from axes back to her still standing in the kitchen. He covers the distance quickly, faster than she’s seen him move with the canes aide. “Better idea,” he’s breathless. “We make crumble!”

It takes her a moment to remember what crumble is, half—distracted with his arms guiding her’s up into dancing position. “Bright,” she warns but he drops her hands right back down with a happy little sigh. “How about grilled cheese?” She spent most of the day with him and is pretty sure she didn’t spot him eating a thing. Cocaine is bad in general but on an empty stomach…

“I have Jarlsberg!”

She has no idea what that means. Until he opens his fridge and she sees that, with the exclusion of seltzer water and a single half—eaten bagel, he has cheese. “Right,” she steps into the kitchen but he’s already stumbling right back out. “I’ll make the grilled cheese and you can—”

He stops. Frozen. He swallows thickly, “gonna puke.”

“Bright!”

He throws the bathroom door shut, suddenly too sober. His knees meet the hard ground. He throws up stomach acid, his throat, and nose burning. The cool of the toilet against his skin makes him shiver. He falls to the floor, hitting his head on the toilet lid as he gags, and his chest pitches dangerously forward.

“Bright!” Dani hits the door, not wanting to invade his privacy but still worried. “Are you okay?”

He’s unable to draw in a breath as he gags again, arms trembling under his weight. “Okay,” he gasps, unable to pull himself up from where he’s wedged between the toilet and the wall. His hip aches deeply and he knows it’s only going to get worse. “Dani? Open the door.” He gags again, bringing up nothing but drool that slides down his lips.

He hates the pity that he spots in her eyes. To her credit, she takes in the rest of the room and then his predicament. She doesn’t judge or demean and he appreciates that a lot. “How do you want me to help?” Her face is set to that stubborn half—frown he first got a glimpse of this morning when she begged him to trust her about Estimé.

He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his face from betraying the pain licking up his side. “Just give me a hand,” he grunts. Although, as each moment drags on he’s not certain only a hand will be all he needs. Still, as she bends over, offering him her right hand he wraps his fingers around her wrist.

“Ready?” She pulls and he pushes, a thin layer of sweat working across his forehead. “Here,” she extends her other hand, taking both of his hands in her own, and with their newfound leverage, he’s unsteadily leaning between her and the shower. “Alright.” She slowly releases him, watching for any sign he might double over on her.

He takes a tentative step, ending up with her arm around his waist and a just barely bit down whimper of pain. “I’m alright,” he manages through clenched teeth. They take another step but she doesn’t comment that there’s no way he’s okay. Frustrated but with no other options, Malcolm has to use Dani to move. His hip is not forgiving of his situation, searing pain making it impossible to move his leg.

“We’re almost to the bed,” Dani reassures him. She can feel his body trembling against hers, each step taking a little longer. She shifts her arm, pulling more of his weight towards her. His eyes are pressed tight, trusting her to guide him to the bed. She hopes he’s got something to relieve some of his pain.

The bed gives beneath his weight, a strangle gasp leaving his mouth as his weight is forced back onto his hip. His hand tightens its hold on her shirt and she stands frozen for a moment, willing him to open his eyes back up. A timid moment passes between them, both tense. She holds in a breath, waiting and chest tight with uncertainty. Unsure of where she helps and where she lets him do this on his own. 

He exhales slowly, forcing himself to release her. Eyes pinched shut and fist clenched he falls back onto the pillows, relief flooding his veins and his pain—reducing significantly. “So—Sorry,” he rasps, opening his eyes and finding her moving a safe distance away. “Today’s been really weird.” He pushes his weight up and away from his aching hip, arms threatening to give out. 

Her soft laughter catches him off guard. “If that isn’t the understatement of the year.” She got kicked off a crime scene, off an investigation. Now she’s at her co—worker's apartment, practically tucking him in. Watching him struggle and writhe and this is easily the weirdest day she’s had in a very, very long time.

They share a smile, the air between them clear.

And she… kind of likes it.

After a moment, she sighs and pulls the blanket at the end of his bed up over him. “You’re still pretty high.” Even in the low light of the room, she can see his blown pupils. She imagines his shaking limbs have as much to do with his hip as the cocaine still raging through his system. “You should sleep it off.”

He hums, letting her pull the blanket up to his chest. He is exhausted. His body feels weak and shaky. No matter how much he pushes now, he’ll end up caving into the numb, tingling high spreading throughout his limbs. “Thank you, Dani.” He turns his face into the pillow, sleep already trying to pull him down. “I know you didn’t want to come… Gil made you but…” he yawns and forces his eyes back open. “You’re the only friend I have and I’m not even sure that’s what we are but—”

She grabs his hand, her cold fingers wrapping around his. It catches him off guard. “Friends…” she tests the word, not sure that’s what she’d call their arguing and forced babysitting. “I think you can say we’re friends.”

He smiles, eyes closed and half gone. “Mmm, don't have many friends.”

She’s friends with Malcolm Bright… and she’s not sure how she feels about that.

__________

“Sucker?”

She’s not in the mood for his golden retriever platonic affection right now. “No thank you,” she mumbles, not even giving him a glance in passing. She’s busy and she’s grumpy and… she knows that if she stops and talks to him that she’s going to feel better. She’d rather just wallow. So she ignores him as he settles.

He pouts a little but it twists quickly into confusion and then curiosity. Moving to sit at his own desk he spreads his things out. She knows the process and she’s not even looking. First the cane. It goes balanced on the handle of the file cabinet attached to his desk. It could sit hooked on the arm of his chair but he keeps it low to the ground. At a low angle he can stretch his leg out and it prevents cramps but also too low. The cane hits the ground and falls off.

After the cane, his coat. For now it’s swept over the back of his chair but by lunch he’ll place it on the coat rack beside hers. They’ve been doing this for months now so she’s noticed that the scent of his cologne seeps into her coats and she wonders if her perfume does the same to his. 

With the coat and cane put up that leaves any scarves or gloves he’s wearing. Gloves aren’t typical but when he walks to work they’re a need. Gloves are a clear sign that today is a good day for his hip. However, it doesn't take much for that to change. She’s had to drop him off a few times after good mornings turn into really bad afternoons. 

He doesn’t ask if she wants him to refill her coffee mug. As he’s passing, he just snags it with his fingers and keeps walking. Today, it’s more limping than walking. He’s leaning heavily onto the cane, knuckles white. That doesn’t mean it’s an entirely awful day though.

He gets suckers when he goes to physical therapy so he’s more than likely just… worn down. 

Now she just feels guilty. 

She looks at the sucker still slightly rocking in her LAPD mug. He’d given her the sucker anyways. Her eyes move up, catching him as he’s pouring their coffee. He’s leaning his body forward, one hand on the cane and the other tightly gripping the counter. His face pinched in pain and his mouth opened as he forces steady breaths. 

And here she is being perfectly miserable for no reason. While he’s putting on a brave face.

“Hey.” 

He jumps as she enters the room, twisting in a way that doesn’t help the pain already threatening to sweep him off his feet. “Dani,” he greets, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He makes a valiant but failed attempt to stand a little straighter. He can’t contain a pained grunt and he’s more or less aware of the sound of a chair scratching across the kitchen’s cheap tiling.

“Easy,” Dani chides, grabbing his bicep he starts to fall. “Just sit,” she helps him into the chair, shaking her head at his stubbornness. So, unnecessary. “I’ll get the coffee,” she offers, stepping around him and picking up the pot where he’s left it sitting on the counter. “Two sugars,” she asks, even though she already knows the answer. 

He shakes his head, though. “I-- I think…” he looks queasy, visibly uncomfortable. “I think I’d better stick to water.” Despite the deep breaths he takes to still his nervous stomach, he can’t keep the tremors out of his hand or the thoughts out of his head. 

He’d gotten a call that morning from his mother. His father is… dying, supposively. A heart attack and progressive heart failure. She’s already starting the funeral process but some part of Malcolm can’t accept that. A part of his brain, still childish and so afraid… he’s certain that Martin Whitly can’t be killed. It’s too good to be true. 

“You good?” she asks. 

He takes the water she offers with both his hands and nods. 

She doesn’t believe him. 

The day moves slowly, even more now that she can’t focus on her work and finds herself looking up to watch him. Trying to dig out what’s bothering him. Her answer doesn’t come until that night. Long after she’s gone to bed.

“Malcolm?” She knows he doesn’t sleep well. The pain haunts his waking hours, it would be crazy to assume it wouldn’t do the same to the sleep schedule. That doesn’t prepare her any more of less for him to call her in the middle of the night. “Are you alright?”

Malcolm swallows thickly around the feeling of sick in his throat. “Can… Uh, I don’t--”

Dani sits up in her bed, “I can over.” It comes out of her mouth faster than she’s prepared for it to. SHe means it but it sounds… wrong.

“Please?”

So, of course she goes. Dressed in oversized grey sweatpants and an old pair of crocs that she’s a little embarrassed to own. Not that he says anything. He just lets her in and guides her to the living, to the biggest TV she’s ever seen. 

“Hot chocolate,” he offers, holding up a kettle of warm water and motioning to the mugs and powder he’s pulled out. 

She nods and her attention goes back to the TV. 

He fills the cups without much comment. Waiting until both cups are made and he can sit. “I assume you know who that is.”

She’s taking in the news as fast as she can. Watching the headlines race across and the cameraman keep the focus on the reporter. It’s grim and snowing and it’s a little too much. 

“He tortured me in our basement,” Malcolm says, pouring their hot chocolate to be mixed. He doesn't bother to look up at her. Everyone, in some small way, knows the story. The Surgeon is a prolific serial killer and Malcolm has heard his father’s name used to scare children for the better part of two decades. “I shouldn’t care that he’s dead.”

Dani sits in stunned silence. She’s still working through being woken up in the middle of the night. Not that she minds, Malcolm is… he’s her friend. She wants to be here with him. Of all the things she was expecting to walk in here too, this comes nowhere close. 

Martin Whitly, notorious serial killer, dead. A heart attack but suspected foul play. The hospital is calling for an investigation.

“You won,” she whispers, chills running up and down body as she watches the screen. He’s gone. “What…” she glances over at Malcolm. To the tears falling down his face while his eyes race to pull in every frame of the TV. “Malcolm?”

He keeps his head turned, failing to hide his tears. 

She scoots closer to him, hesitating only a moment before pulling him in for a hug. Surprised, really, when he turns into the hug. “It’s going to be okay, Malcolm. You’re okay.”

He nods his head. 

He did it. 

He outlived his monster.

**Author's Note:**

> Not really sure I like anything about the last half of this story but it's here and I did it so...


End file.
